The little fat man laughed harshly. He shook his head:
“I don’t know how the Beelzebub I shall break this musical comedy to Samuel.... Overreached in my own business and by a Christian!”
He walked gloomily out of the place.
******
After the irate dealer had departed, his miserable bailiff ceased his sobbing against the wall, took off the gorgeous coat, and staunched his tears on the sleeve of his tattered shirt. He was a broken figure of dejection—blear-eyed, weak-kneed, ragged, snuffling.
He changed into his old clothes, went and seated himself on the scarlet coffin, and crouched there, a woe-begone wonderer in despair.
He burst into tears.
He put his grimy hand into the side-pocket of his greasy coat for a handkerchief—it struck against a sheet of paper.
He blew his nose on a rag, soiled to mud-colour, unfolded the paper, and read it:
“If you should be dismissed from employment, communicate with Sir Pompey Malahide’s butler, who will see to it that you do not suffer. Don’t forget to call him my lord. Ecod, you sang like a damned canary.”